


Chapter 20 - Christmas 1940

by Kizzykat



Series: The Charioteer [2]
Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 08:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10355838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzykat/pseuds/Kizzykat
Summary: Laurie receives an unexpected Christmas present from his motherCross-posted on fanfiction.net





	

Chapter 20 - Christmas 1940

Laurie was alone in the drawing room at the vicarage. It was by far the best room in the house in spite of the drab green paint and dull brown furniture, relicts of the previous mistress of the house. It was an airy room with a high Victorian ceiling, filled with light from a large bay window through which the low winter sunshine glittered on the emerald lawn where the frost had melted but not evaporated. Beyond the lawn the view opened across the valley onto bare hedgerows and medieval field patterns towards the spire at Norton two miles away, but Laurie was not paying attention to the view today.

He was reclining on the sofa, resting his bad knee. They had attended the Boxing Day Meet yesterday and, moving too hastily out of the way of a backing horse, Laurie had slipped on the icy cobbles and wrenched his knee. His walking stick had saved him from a fall, but the pain had been enough to halt him in his tracks. Today the knee ached with a dull pain that had made the sofa in the cold drawing room preferable to the sagging armchairs in the dark study where the fire had been lit this afternoon. 

There was a tartan rug across Laurie's legs to compensate for the lack of a fire and he was ostensibly reading his mother's Christmas present, a second-hand book on Ancient Greece bought in the current spirit of thrift. She had hoped it would be useful for his University studies, but Laurie's interest had rapidly faded and, camouflage in place, he was staring at the pages, lost in thought.

He had received a letter from Ralph in the afternoon post, and he slipped the envelope from between the pages of his book, opened the small oblong of white paper and re-read Ralph's brief missive. 

"Dear Spud,

I hope you are well, and have enjoyed your Christmas. Things turned rather quiet here on the day and I was able to get a few hours off, so I spent the festive season with Alec. He needed some cheering up as there has been a serious row with S. I do not know whether it is final, and the planned New Year party may not go ahead. However, do not let that put you off coming down to Bridstow. I am sure we can find a way to celebrate the New Year and catch up since we last met.

I will pick you up at the station tomorrow afternoon.

Yours,

Ralph."

Laurie stared at the page. There was a finality and distance in the throw-away phrase 'catch up' as though they were merely casual acquaintances. He knew that Ralph had probably pitched the tone of the letter to avoid compromising Laurie or raising any questions for the censor or a casual reader, but such nuances plucked at Laurie's insecurities.

He also felt that there was a hint of accusation in the 'since we last met', as though Ralph were blaming Laurie for their last unsatisfactory and frustrating meeting over a month ago. Ralph's training course had finished and he had been posted close to Bridstow, at least temporarily, but his shift work and petrol shortages meant he couldn't make many trips up to Oxford, and train changes wasted too much time. Laurie could have got an exeat and visited Ralph, but he had demurred: he had not gone up to Oxford until two weeks after Full Term started; he not only had this Term's work to catch up on, but he had to revise the previous two year's work. He had stayed up past the end of Term to satisfy his matriculation requirements, yet he knew he had been reluctant to commit to Ralph. 

He rationalised his equivocation by telling himself he needed to find himself, to return to the person he had been before the war started, and then he would make a decision. It had not been that simple. He had been lonely, and he missed Ralph intensely: he missed Ralph's company.

He also trusted Ralph, but, like the unwanted guest at the feast, the spectre of Bunny refused to fade into the background. The strength of Ralph's desires might prove too tempting in Laurie's absence, and the news that Alec and Sandy were no longer together was a cause for anxiety. Alec and Ralph had a past history, he was present and perhaps in need of consolation if he and Sandy had separated.

Laurie's thoughts roiled around his doubts of Ralph's loyalty and integrity and he longed for Ralph to surely and firmly dispel his jealousy as unfounded, as he knew in all probability it was. He wasn't even sure if Ralph had committed to him either: it was all unspoken assumption.

Yet he was not innocent of doubt either: he had not told Ralph of the unexpected visit to Oxford by Andrew on a foggy evening at the end of November. It had not been the sort of thing one could casually drop into a letter and leave the recipient to mull over and speculate upon alone, nor explain fully over the telephone. Ralph had either been thoughtless or innocent in writing his letter.

"Don't get up, my dear," Laurie's mother said as she pushed the drawing room door closed behind her. "I've brought you a cup of tea."

Involuntarily, Laurie shut his book on Ralph's letter and swung his legs to the ground. He smoothed the marks of his heels from the sofa as his mother drew near bearing a small wooden tray which she set down on the round table at the end of the sofa.

"How is your knee, dear?" his mother asked, kissing his forehead and smoothing back the lock of hair that had fallen forward over his brow.

"Much better," he lied. "I was just resting it." Laurie, in close proximity to his mother, noticed that her tweed skirt looked to be getting rather tighter than he remembered. Married life must agree with her, he reflected: that, or too many afternoon teas.

"I am so sorry there is no fire in here," Laurie's mother said as she handed him his cup of tea. "It is such a large room that it needs a fire in all day to keep it warm, but with things as they are, we can't really justify it: not when we have the study to sit in." The teaspoon was arranged tidily on the saucer parallel to the cup's handle and the china was a floral and gilt concoction that Laurie had not seen before: presumably it had come with the house.

"I found our old picnic rug in the hall," he said, "and I like this room. There's a lot you could do with it."

"Yes, it has good proportions," she said, seating herself on the edge of the sofa and holding out the sugar and a plate of tea biscuits to Laurie. "Drink your tea, dear, you look cold. The room really needs decorating, but it seems frivolous to think of such things at a time like this. Perhaps in the Spring, if things have improved: men still have to work and feed their families."

Laurie declined the biscuits and she turned and replaced the floral plate on the white cloth on the tray. She did not retrieve her own tea but clasped her hands anxiously in her lap. Laurie recognised a sign of preoccupation in the tightly interlaced fingers. His father's wedding ring was on her right hand now and her new wedding band on her left hand. A small diamond ring that Laurie hadn't seen before accompanied it.

"If I'd know you were going to spend any time in here," she continued, "I would have brought the electric fire down from upstairs for you."

"Mother, dear," Laurie said, covering her hands with his and giving them a gentle squeeze, "You are talking to me as if I were the visiting Women's Institute. Is anything wrong?"

She looked at him, her eyes misting with tears. "Oh, dear," she said.

"Good Lord, what is it?" Laurie said anxiously, setting his tea cup down on the floor, fearing all sorts of things - that Mr Straike was a monster, that her marriage was over, even that Mr Straike had complained of him and didn't want him in the house any more. He held both her hands in his.

Throughout his Christmas visit Laurie had had the sense that his mother was nervous about him. He had put it down to her anxiety that he accept her new life and not make a fuss. He had therefore done his best to be unobtrusive and congenial company. The Reverend Mr Straike had appeared to be in oblivious good spirits throughout Laurie's visit, almost amusingly so, and Laurie had decided it must be the excitement of the season and the hectic schedule of a parish priest at this time of the year. It had only been in the evenings that Laurie had been much in his company, and his step-father seemed to have gone out of his way to engage with Laurie. It had been a strain on Laurie's already fraught nerves, but he felt he had acquitted himself decently and could leave tomorrow without having antagonised his step-father. He was, after all, still a visitor on trial here. It was not his home.

"You can tell me," he urged his mother, "whatever it is."

Her face lowered, she looked up at him with emotions trembling below the surface. She drew a breath, gathering her resolve. "Oh, dear, this is so embarrassing, I don't know how to tell you. It is the last thing I thought would happen, especially at my age, but you see, my dear, I'm, I'm expecting."

Expecting what? Laurie thought blankly, but at the look of anticipation on her face, it dawned on him what she meant.

"Oh, I know you must be shocked, and you mustn't think it will make any difference to us, Laurie. You will always be special to me."

Laurie galvanised himself. "Nonsense, you mustn't think about me." He leant forward and kissed her cheek. "Congratulations. Are you pleased?"

The relief on her face was unmistakable, and for the first time she allowed a glimmer of excitement to show. "Well, I am, and I'm not. It is such early days, anything could happen, and at my age it is very likely nothing will come of it, so it would be foolish to place too much hope in it. You mustn't say anything to anyone yet, Laurie dear, in case something happens, but I wanted to tell you about it before you went away. I may not see you again until Easter, and it would be too much of a shock for you to see me then, and it is not the sort of news I would want to break to you in a letter. That would be too unkind."

"Quite. Is Gareth pleased?" Laurie forced himself to ask.

"I think so. He never thought he would have a child of his own, and now that there is a possibility he might, he says he feels like a young man again. At times I am horrified to be starting it all again now that you are grown: you have no idea how hard raising a child can be. Yet, if it is to be, we will make the best of it, although Heaven knows what people are going to say. I don't know how I am going to face people when it gets about."

Laurie remembered when he would come home from prep school in the Michaelmas half-term, she would invariably spend the evenings knitting a babies' matinee jacket for the W.I.'s Christmas Fayre. He had often wondered how something so full of holes could keep a baby warm, but perhaps something small and frilly satisfied some feminine instinct. It was years since he had seen her knitting anything and he wondered if she still had that instinct.

"I am sure they will be kind." He realised something more was required. "I wish you every happiness, dearest, and I am sure everything will be fine, but you must take care of yourself."

His mother smiled tenderly. "You are very kind, my dear. I knew you would understand. Even when you were just a few days old, when you heard my voice you would move your head and hands as though you understood it was me." She patted his arm. "I've made you let you tea grow cold. Would you like a fresh cup? I think I could do with one now."

"No, thank you. I think I might take a turn around the garden before the sun goes and stretch the knee a bit."

"Don't get cold then, dear."

Laurie leant down and retrieved his cup to pass to her. He remained leaning forward as she left the drawing room and he sat numbly on the sofa, his mind blank. All he could think of was the image that appeared in his mind of the matrass sagging beneath their combined weight covered by the olive green eiderdown in the room next to which he had slept.

He stood abruptly and walked to the window. He knew he was being juvenile, but it did not ease the sense of betrayal.

As he stared blindly out at the garden with its sharp shadows cast by the low sun, for some reason he thought of Charlotte Lucas in Pride and Prejudice: Mr Straike really was a descendant of Mr Collins. Charlotte had encouraged her ridiculous husband to tend the vicarage garden for his health, and gained a respite from his company. Her little olive branch would have been a godsent compensation and distraction. Perhaps that was the way he should view the impending child, and be grateful his mother would have a source of consolation.

He turned, gathered the rug and put Ralph's letter in his jacket pocket. Folding the rug, he went out into the hall, stowed the rug safely back in the chest, donned his overcoat and hat, and passed out through the front door. He walked around the side of the house, avoiding the study window which overlooked the dank camellia bushes and bare elms trees at the front of the house. Emerging into the sunshine, he slowed and walked around the gravel path that edged the lawn. He remembered attending Church fetes here as a child when bic-a-brac, cake and jam stalls and a tombola would festoon the vicarage lawn. Memories of his early childhood and schooldays surfaced, and he realised he did not have a picture of his mother smiling in public when he was a child, just a slender woman in blue holding tightly to his hand and smiling with forced politeness. It must have been difficult for her being a mother without being a wife. Being the vicar's wife gave her the ultimate respectability now.

Laurie had reached the far side of the lawn and was staring at the iron fence which edged the garden, thin enough not to obstruct the view but enough to stop a child running off the lawn and falling into the ha-ha below. There must have been children in the vicarage at some point in the past, although not in his memory. He looked over his shoulder at the house, wondering which room his sibling would inhabit. He felt exposed beneath the empty windows and feared seeing the ghost of an Edwardian child with ringlets and a bow in her hair staring down at him from the attic windows.

Moving beneath the shadow of the garden trees, he passed through the metal gate in the hedge into the churchyard. The tussocks of wet grass and the slope of the ground made the going uneven, so he took his time as he had not brought his stick with him. He walked slowly past the leaning 18th century headstones, almost illegible, past the self-righteously upright 19th century inscriptions, towards the fashion of the recent pre-war burials, gravel-filled bourgeois plots edged with marble coping and the residents' name marked in lead along the sides. They seemed to claim their little plot of England, their respectable place in the village. He wondered for the first time where his father was buried.

Laurie absently studied one, knowing he would not have a country churchyard burial like this because he would not have children to bury him or neighbours who would approve if they gave him a decent memorial. If he chose life with Ralph, he would live in the city, a life of anonymity where his life-style could be hidden beneath the fringe of hysteria and frippery. There would be no afternoon teas at the vicarage, but gin parties in the glitz of a Bunny's flat.

If he chose. Laurie walked abruptly away and without really thinking where he was going, walked into the church porch. Could he and Ralph not have a life of quiet domesticity here after the war, living in the old cottage, Laurie catching the bus each day into town to work in a bank or teach at the grammar school, and Ralph writing his travel books. If they were amiable and offended no one's sensibilities, Laurie knew enough about village life to guess they would be tolerated in living together.

Removing his hat, Laurie grasped the church door handle and pushed the heavy door open, knowing such a quiet rural idyll would drive Ralph insane. He stepped down from the threshold, closing the big door behind him and walked slowly down the aisle. The church was cold, but not bone-chillingly so as it still retained some of the warmth from the services over Christmas, yet despite the cold, there was still a musty stone smell, overlain with a faint tang of pine boughs and the rust of chrysanthemums.

He sat down in the front pew and stretched out his aching knee, staring numbly at the Nativity crib beneath the pulpit. He rubbed his face with his hand, knowing that in imagining a future here in the village he was trying to hold onto his mother. It would only work if he forsook a future with Ralph, if he took Andrew's path and denied his true self. He could live a quiet lie and settle down with a girl like Nurse Adrian, and end up betraying her every day in his heart.

The sense of childish betrayal was growing, the numbness replaced with anger and denial that had no outlet. It was pointless to ask God for strength to deal with his mother's betrayal, for was he not betraying God by who he was, and the God he had seen in war was not a God of compassion.

Footsteps sounded and Laurie looked up as Reverend Straike walked out from the vestry, in his shirt sleeves and drying his hands on a terry towel. "Ah, Laurence, I thought I recognised your step."

Hastily trying to neutralise the expression on his face, Laurie pushed himself to his feet as his stepfather approached. He found he had to use the arm of the pew as his knee had stiffened. He felt inadequate standing before his hearty stepfather who didn't seem to be aware of the cold, irrationally annoyed that his footstep had been recognised and that he could not be left alone with his thoughts. Yet he should have realised that he would find the vicar here.

"Hrm," Mr Straike said and, looking at him, Laurie was surprised to see that he appeared embarrassed. "Has your mother given you our joyful news?"

"Yes." Laurie forced a smile onto his face. Good manners prevailed and he stuck out his hand. "Congratulations."

Mr Straike shook his hand heartily, looking relieved, and Laurie retrieved his hand, feeling as if he had touched something clammy, and a little overwhelmed by the masculinity of Mr Straike's presence.

"I am sure you were as surprised as we were," Mr Straike said, unrolling his sleeves and buttoning the cuffs. "But do sit down, Laurence my boy, you look tired."

"I'd rather stand," Laurie said. Then feeling his tone had been a little curt, "It's easier now I'm on my feet."

"Quite. But, hrm... Let me fetch my jacket and I'll walk you back to the house. I was just about to lock up."

Laurie waited, fearing an impending confidence but his anger had evaporated leaving him depressed and too tired to care. He only had this evening to get through and then he would be gone tomorrow, and he would see Ralph.

Mr Straike emerged, buttoning his tweed jacket. As they neared the open space before the west door, he stopped, fingering the church's large key.

"I wanted to ask a favour of you, Laurence," he began. "I know you are a young man and have your own life to lead, but I want you to be a part of this child's life. We thought that the next baby in the family would be yours when you married but, the Lord may have decreed otherwise. If His plans come to fruition - and they may not, as I'm sure your mother will have explained - but if they do, when this child reaches your age, and you are our age, neither your mother nor I may be still around."

He opened the door and invited Laurie to exit. Slightly shocked, Laurie moved with a jerk to comply. He waited in the porch as Mr Straike flicked the light switches off and locked the oak door.

Tapping the key against his other hand, Mr Straike faced him. "Given your mother's and my ages, Laurence, and I am older than your mother, this child may be left without the guidance of its parents as it reaches maturity. I would ask you to be prepared to take on that task and to be involved in the welfare of this child as it grows. In short, I am asking you to remain a close member of this family, someone the child can look to for guidance and support."

He looked at Laurie expectantly and Laurie stared back at him, completely at a loss. He felt a confusion of gratitude and bitterness at what was being asked of him.

Mr Straike seemed to expect this and he turned to usher Laurie out of the porch with a touch of solicitude. "Your mother seems to think that you will drift away from us, especially with this news. I want to assure you that you will have a home here as long as you need one, and that your mother will always have time for you. A mother's firstborn is always special to her, and though this child may occupy a lot of her attention, I have already earmarked a girl from the village who might be suitable to assist her. All her time will not be occupied by the child."

On a spurt of irritation at being categorised and arranged, Laurie quickened his pace down the path towards the lychgate.

"Thank you, I am sure my mother will appreciate the help." He held the gate open for Mr Straike. He also couldn't help but think that a lot of chickens were being counted before the eggs were hatched. 

As they walked down the pavement towards the vicarage drive, Laurie felt he ought to make some reply. "I am grateful for your concern for myself, Mr Straike, and be assured that, should the need arise, I will fulfil my family obligations as far as I am able."

"I am relieved to hear that, Laurence, but please, you must try to call me 'Gareth' now."

++

As the train neared Bridstow, Laurie felt increasingly nervous about meeting Ralph, fearing change in their relationship and loss of interest, as well as a growing excitement. He easily picked Ralph out from the crowd on the platform as he descended and Ralph turned and saw him, threading his way effortlessly through the crowd.

"Hello, Spud," he said cheerfully, standing before Laurie. "How are you? It's good to see you."

"Hello, Ralph." Laurie's heart had started beating so fast at Ralph's proximity that for a moment he felt quite light-headed, yet there was no doubting the warmth of Ralph's welcome.

Ralph lent close and relieved Laurie of his suitcase. "You look done in, Spud," he said with a quiet smile. "Let's get you home. Was Christmas really ghastly?"

"I'll say."

"Never mind: you've done your duty. You can tell me all about it and then we'll try and make up for it over New Year. The car's just outside."

As they settled into the car, Ralph slipped his maimed hand beneath Laurie's elbow and gave it a gentle squeeze. The small gesture of affection and welcome sent a flood of relief through Laurie: he felt he had come home and his problems seemed to recede into manageable proportions at least for a moment.

Ralph's new flat, set in a Georgian merchant's house rather than a Victorian draper's, had the air of a set of rooms in College with a sparse but clean sitting room and a bedroom leading off it. 

"Take the weight off your feet, Spud," Ralph said, squatting to light the gas fire.

Laurie removed his overcoat and sank gratefully into one of the square leather armchairs on either side of the fireplace. "I like your new rooms," he said. "They suit you."

"I was lucky to get them. The last occupant was killed at sea and someone at the station, knowing I was looking for digs, gave me the nod." Ralph turned from the fire and dragged a matching leather pouf closer. He lifted Laurie's bad leg onto it and, as Laurie sat up to protest, rose and, straddling the pouf, lifted Laurie's other leg onto the pouf as well.

He looked commandingly down at Laurie, an effect which he dissipated with a charming smile. "Put your feet up and rest while I make the tea," he said, walking away before Laurie had a chance to object.

Laurie subsided, feeling tired yet excited and looked around Ralph's room at the water colour of a ship under full sail above the mantelpiece, at the heavy bookcase containing a set of encyclopaedias, nautical almanacs, the art of shipbuilding manuals, and Boy's Own annuals. It gave the effect of a boy having grown to a man in this room.

After a few moments, Ralph returned with a mug of tea in his good hand and balancing a plate of sandwiches neatly wrapped in greaseproof paper on the palm of his maimed hand. He set them down on the wide arm of the chair which seemed made to balance things on.

"Just corned beef and mustard, I'm afraid," he said. "I'll go out and get us some fish and chips later if you don't feel like going out."

"Thank you. You shouldn't be waiting on me," Laurie said, struggling to straighten himself out of the comfort of the armchair.

"Nonsense. It's good to have you home."

Laurie coloured in grateful embarrassment but thankfully Ralph didn't see as he went to retrieve his own tea and sandwiches.

"What did you put in this tea?" Laurie asked when he returned.

"Just a splash of whiskey. You looked like you need fortifying." 

"Is there any in yours?"

"No," Ralph said from behind his mug. He looked across at Laurie from the other armchair. "I've turned over a new leaf; spirits only when I'm not on duty the next day." At Laurie's look, he added, "Truth to tell, I need all my wits about me when I'm on duty. It takes all my concentration, and I don't need to deal with a hangover."

"Ah," Laurie said, knowing he couldn't ask about Ralph's work, and feeling superfluous to the war effort. All he could contribute were fire watches on top of St Mary's Church with old men who regaled him with tales of horror from the Great War.

He realised too that Ralph's life had moved on in his absence and that Ralph's good spirits might have more to do with a newly acquired sense of purpose and usefulness than with their reunion. It left him feeling slightly adrift.

"How is Alec? I gather from your letter that all is not well."

"Yes," Ralph said, settling back into his armchair and biting into his sandwich. His legs were crossed, one ankle negligently resting on his other knee as he balanced his plate on his lap. It was a gesture of relaxation and confident masculinity. "Sandy has gone to visit his parents in Scotland for Hogmanay. Whether he will return to Alec's flat is a different matter. Alec is naturally very cut up about it."

"Do you think it is final?"

"Perhaps. Alec won't admit it, but I think he is a little relieved too. Sandy has the makings of a good doctor if he would just get a grip on his emotions: he can be hard work to manage."

"Oh." Laurie could think of nothing more to say.

"But enough of this," Ralph said briskly, unfolding his legs and laying aside his mug and plate. He sat up. "Tell me about your Christmas."

Thrown a little off balance by the eagerness of Ralph's question, Laurie floundered, unsure where to begin.

"It seems there is to be a new member in the family."

Ralph stared at him in disbelief. "Really? Good grief," he said, half to himself, "the Madonna has succumbed to temptation."

"That's my mother you are insulting."

"I apologise," Ralph said, not looking very apologetic. "But really, Spud, this is too funny. At their age; can you imagine it?"

"Yes. My mother is mortified at what people will think."

Ralph's face changed and he moved to kneel in front Laurie. "I'm sorry, Laurie, it must be awful for you. I suppose you will have to keep putting in dutiful appearances?"

"It would break my mother's heart if I didn't. I could not be an ungrateful child, nor abandon her to his mercies."

"It was her choice."

"She made the choice she thought was best for her. She didn't envisage it adding another burden, nor that I would behave like a spoilt child." Laurie looked away at the fire, angry at himself and at the world.

"Laurie, look at me." Laurie responded to the note of command. "I doubt that you behaved like that, or ever will. However, if you are ever made to feel that your presence is unnecessary or unwanted, no one would blame you if you stayed away."

"I want to get to know my sibling. When I was eight or nine, I would watch families come to school: parents, sisters and younger brothers; and I would envy them. My mother would always know, and would make a fuss of me, or organise a special treat, so that I grew not to want to share her with anyone. Now I have to." He looked down at his lap, ashamed of his childish outburst and the memories it raised.

"Spud, do I have to tell you this is not worthy of you?" Ralph asked very quietly.

"No." Laurie wanted to move away from Ralph's proximity, but it would be too ill-mannered to push past him to get up.

"Dearest," Ralph said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have more than one person to love you now."

Laurie met Ralph's gaze and was glad he had not moved out of Ralph's reach, all thought of the revelation of Andrew's visit fled from his mind.


End file.
